


Fighter of the Forest

by SamanthaBlue



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Character Study, Classism, Gen, Headcanon, Illiteracy, Loneliness, Oneshot, Sexism, tauriel's promotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaBlue/pseuds/SamanthaBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel is just a peasant, uneducated and recently bereft of parents. Her journey to Captain of the Guard is fraught with difficulties not experienced by her peers.</p>
<p>A little headcanon on how a lower class, unusually young elleth got to where she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighter of the Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Shabby character exploration. Partly bookverse, partly movieverse. For purposes of this fic, Captain of the Guard is the highest rank one can hold in the Mirkwood Army.

Tauriel had never been to the great Elven cities of Imladris or Caras Galadhon. She had been born in a modest home amongst the trees and had spent the carefree years of her youth learning the woods and befriending the animals. It was a strange time with a dreamlike quality. She had no responsibility to any beside herself; her parents had ensured she learned that early. Her only job was to find food enough to eat, to build and better her home in the forest as the years wore it down while time left her untouched.

She was an adult when the shadow moved in, but never had she felt so young and lost as when she found her parents hacked apart in the garden behind her home, Nana with a sword in her hand, Ada with a scimitar in his belly. She had been forced to move, along with many others into the walls of Thranduil’s fortress. She was not the only one to have lost family, but she was the only one to lose everyone.

She was good with a bow. She knew how to use a knife, but really only to slit a suffering animal’s throat or to skin game. Her swordwork needed honing, but she could not read and her only method of supporting herself was through weaponry. She had wanted to be a hunter, but work was scarce; the kingdom was under attack and choice was no longer a luxury Thranduil’s people could afford. When she was assigned to the army, Tauriel did not argue. 

For an elleth who had always been supremely gifted with the luxury of time, being told she had only four weeks of training was shocking and scary. She had no friends. She slept in a small room with six ellons, and she felt they didn’t enjoy her presence. She had lost her parents a mere two moons ago. For someone who had always moved so slowly and who had taken the time to carefully enjoy every second, two moons was no time. She had yet to mourn them, not even shedding a tear as they were buried with fourteen others in the mass grave dug hastily after one of Thranduil’s patrols had dispatched orcs occupying the immediate area. She was not sleeping before she went to sword training with some other volunteers who had never held one in their lives. They were farmers often, elves who were now refugees and had never held a sword in their lives. Tauriel was dizzy and drained from the sudden change in her life, emotions she didn’t know how to deal with creating a storm in her gut, and it made her sloppy. When they were paired off to spar, Tauriel would trip or flourish too much and create an easy opening. She hated the eyes leveled on her, judging her, but she hated more when they grouped together and excluded her, whispering things about her. She was not the only one to flounder, but she was the one who sat alone as the serving woman handed over her refreshments. 

Archery training was worse. Tauriel was good at archery, and the standing still and gentle breathing was excellent for keeping her calm. She hit the bullseye every time. Her talent, however, was not recognised by her peers. Here she was ostracised as well, and the others did nothing to mask their cruel whispers. Apparently they were of the opinion she should have volunteered for a position as a healer, or a seamstress. 

****

Tauriel was tough. Her father had always said so, said she had hide thick as a dragon. In her decades on patrols she began to see he was right. Many an elf quit under strain. Blood and screams were not what the Firstborn were meant to endure. Thranduil was not cruel, and no one was made to stay where they could no longer carry on. Tauriel endured the blood and the screams, but she endured more. 

She was different. She felt her difference marked every time her patrol met to regroup and a torn tunic or some leggings were shoved in her face, with a demand she fix them. She felt it marked whenever she was made to bandage a minor wound, though they all had the same rudimentary training in healing and she was no better than any other. She felt it when she had an arrow nocked and pointed at a buck, only to have her kill stolen the second before she released. She hated the gentle pat on her shoulder after this, and the assertion that he was just helping her. She hated being sent to report to the prince or to the king, and having to carefully memorise what she was meant to say before going, because she could not read and the paper scrunched in her hand was useless to her. 

She was a creature of resilience, someone who did what it took to survive at any cost. As the years marched by and time turned cruel, she watched those around her disappear for greener pastures and better jobs, or else be killed by the ever encroaching servants of the enemy. She resented that elves who had subtly belittled her began to take their place leading patrols or planning strategy while she remained a foot soldier, fighting not for her king but for her bread and butter. Eventually she began to realise she was stronger than most. She would not give up in a fight, whether it be a fight to make her feel like she did not belong or whether it be a battle of blood, and she survived as she saw more and more elves of the Greenwood be buried not far from where her parents lay.

Her ruthless streak was what changed her life forever. 

Orcs, spiders and wargs had been working together, slowly coming into dominance along the forest path. Supplies were delayed at best or else cut off entirely, and in a move of desperation, Thranduil sent a force to take back their most important trade route. Tauriel marched with them, and when her formation took to the trees in a move of stealth, she was silent and deadly as any.

The leader of her regimen in the trees was Aron, a raven haired ellon, and she waited for his signal, bow poised. When it came, fifty arrows shot from the trees into the necks of their enemies, and the ground force charged, the advantage of surprise winning them a few quick and easy kills before the orcs responded. Then pandemonium reigned. 

Tauriel had long ago learned to pull her hood up over her vibrant hair, and she was lucky the archers of the enemy did not spot her, for they were well used to the elven technique of using the trees. Tauriel watched as the first elf in a tree across from her fell with a scream, a black arrow in his shoulder, and was quickly devoured by wargs. The forces on the ground were facing similar trouble as they tried to take on the orcs in the thin path, avoiding straying into the trees where it would be harder for them to spy the dark orcs and spiders than it would be for the orcs to spy their elven glow, even with their superior vision. 

But then Tauriel watched in horror as spiders emerged from the trees to flank the forces on the ground, and it was a fight for their very lives. Tauriel ran out of arrows quickly, drawing her sword. She was about to swing down from the branches, but she felt something tickle her ankle. She glanced down and saw a giant spider, eyes boring into her and pincers glistening with venom – she did not think. She lashed out, first cutting off its pincers then driving her sword into its eyes.

It screeched, an unholy, loud shriek, and fell back. Tauriel gripped the branch at her feet and swung her body down, landing hard on the shoulders of an orc and sending him to the ground as she dropped to join the fray. Here she was in her element. She cut down her enemies with a speed and ferocity equaled by none, bred by hardship and honed by toil. Occasionally during battle, an elf would shout out a battlecry, a symbol of patriotism and kingly devotion, but Tauriel had never fought for more than desperation to go home to a bed and a warm meal. More than any king, she loved the forest, and she would not see it destroyed. 

As one hand swung her sword, her other darted out occasionally, collecting arrows when it was safe to do so and depositing them in the quiver at her hip. It was a technique she had taught herself over the years. She never wanted to be without a weapon, and archery was her main strength. By the time she heard Aron crying out for a retreat, she had seven.

The trees were her safest bet, and she was up amongst the branches in seconds. The orcs were retreating also, a noisy rabble lacking the discipline of an army of men or elves but effective in their own way.

There was one voice Tauriel heard that was different to the rough, guttural sounds of orc soldiers. A higher voice, a musical tone to it but now crying out a mournful tune of fear and pain –

She searched and saw a dark head of hair amongst the orc soldiers. Her stomach flipped – it was Captain Arphen, third only to the prince and king in command of the forces of Mirkwood. He had been captured, divested of his weapons. 

Tauriel glanced back at the elven forces and did a quick calculation. She could see no hope for the captain. The orcs were too numerous and he had been pushed until he was in the middle of their ranks, a clear attempt by the orcs to cut him off from help. Unfortunately, it looked to have worked. 

Tauriel had only seconds before he was taken out of her range of vision, and she knew what was his destination. Dol Guldur.

Tauriel reached to her quiver and withdrew one of the recovered arrows. It took her only a breath to draw back and aim, and then her arrow sailed, right into the eye of Captain Arphen.

He didn’t scream. There was no time. There was only the sound of arrow meeting flesh, a huff of air, and another child of Iluvatar was ended. But unlike the bodies that littered the ground, Arphen had been killed by another of the Firstborn. Murderer – the word echoed around Tauriel’s head unpleasantly. She could be killed for this, or else exiled in case Thranduil did not want two lives ended by her choice – she didn’t know. But even now, even as she felt horror tingling up her spine as the orcs threw Arphen down as though he was worth nothing more than a pile of rags, even as she watched his blood and brains seep out onto the dirt, she did not regret it. Better this, better he goes to the Halls of Waiting than to the halls of the Necromancer.

Only when the orcs were far enough away did Tauriel come down from the tree – and she felt her arm immediately enclosed in a vice like grip. She was bodily forced around until she was facing Aron, and she had never seen such a look of hatred on his face. “Tell me you missed!” he roared.

His voice would make any quake. His cheeks were tinged red and he was holding her uncomfortably close. It was dead silent after his shout, as he waited for Tauriel’s response, but she would not give in to his intimidation. She had done the right thing. “You could not have saved him,” she argued, her voice calm and measured against his rage.

“When did you, Tauriel, daughter of Ceven, find yourself gifted with foresight?” Aron asked. He was grieving. He had known Arphen for years, served under him with honour. 

“He will be reborn in Valinor!” Tauriel argued. “He might have lasted years under torture had they captured him – I ensured they never could! He was dead the moment they parted him from his sword!”

“You dare defend your actions?” Aron cried. “I will not be argued with by a peasant girl, is that clear?”

Tauriel’s jaw clenched as she recognised the order for what it was. Slowly, and with what looked to be much effort, Aron stepped back, his hand falling from Tauriel’s arm and leaving what felt like bruised flesh. Tauriel resisted the urge to rub it.

“Bind her hands,” Aron ordered softly. “She will be judged by the king.” He did not look away from Tauriel. His eyes brimmed with betrayal and rage, now closely guarded. “I suspect she will be found wanting.”

****

Tauriel was spared no kindness as she was roughly pulled into the king’s halls. Most of the elves had gone to enjoy some food or get some rest, but sixteen remained, some who cried out intimidating comments as they dragged her along and others who just cried, not hiding their tears as grief for their fallen leader filled their hearts. Tauriel’s own heart was a storm, sadness writing with a certainty in the rightness of her own actions to paint a bitter picture. Today she had seen death for what it was. An evil, and sometimes, a necessary one.

The king of the wood, Thranduil, was the embodiment of elven immortality. Ever enduring, only the crown on his head acknowledged the seasons as they moved past. He had ruled for not only the entirety of Tauriel’s life, but the lives of her mother and father too, and he absorbed the changing years like they were nothing more than a soft breeze. When the elves approached him, a high and mighty people reduced to an aggressive squabble, Thranduil’s eyes swept over them with the air of one appreciating a play.

“My King,” Aron began, stepping forward as the most highly ranked person present, “Captain Arphen has fallen.”

The vague amusement fled from Thranduil’s eyes, and his jaw tightened, but he had more control than any other Tauriel had seen. He had been close to Arphen, he had to have been. The captain’s role involved much contact with the king, and not even Thranduil was so stoic as to be unmoved by his loss.

“Tauriel killed him,” Aron said softly.

Those piercing eyes met Tauriel’s, and were she of feebler heart she would have looked away. But she would not dishonour her name by cowering, and she met Thranduil’s gaze, acknowledging that what Aron had said was true. 

Eventually, Thranduil looked away. “Please leave us,” he ordered softly. “Aron, unbind her.”

Aron’s weight shifted from one leg to the other. “My lord…”

“I have led armies and fought amongst more. I witnessed the fall of Sauron. I can defend myself against one elleth.”

Tauriel glanced at Aron, who looked chastised. He gave a short nod and jerked his head towards the door at the end of the hall. The other elves left, and Aron followed after removing the coarse rope from Tauriel’s wrists.

It was utterly silent. Thranduil was staring at her, and it suddenly occurred to Tauriel that Thranduil was a master at intimidation and manipulation. His pose was carefully relaxed, but his sharp eyes boring into her left her with no uncertainty as to who was in charge here. She began to feel increasingly uncomfortable, but instinct told her to wait just as she was.

“You killed Arphen?” he asked, very softly, without blinking.

She couldn’t do it – could not look at him any longer. Instead of being confronted by his icy eyes she fixed her gaze to just over his shoulder and responded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Why?” 

“The orcs were leaving,” she explained. “We had not the numbers to defeat them entirely, but we did force them to retreat. I was in a tree when I heard Captain Arphen shout. He had been captured.” She paused, and Thranduil nodded for her to continue. “I observed the surroundings,” she said. “I calculated how many of us were left, and how far he was. In no scenario could he have been rescued. So I shot him. I shot him through the eye. I wanted to spare him any pain I could.”

If the mental image of his long time acquaintance being shot through the eye disturbed Thranduil, he did not show it. “You know, then, what his fate would have been had he successfully been taken?” 

Tauriel nodded. “Yes, my lord. He would have been taken to Dol Guldur. He would have been tortured, possibly for information on this kingdom but also possibly just for the sport of orcs. He would never have survived, and if he did he would become a cursed shell of a once great figure. I couldn’t allow that.”

“No,” said Thranduil, softly, without malice. Suddenly he stood and descended from his throne, coming to stand directly before Tauriel. He towered above her, but she met his gaze. “Today you have shown courage the like of which I have not seen in too many centuries, however, that courage resulted in the loss of one of the Eldar. I trust you understand how serious that is.”

Tauriel tried to say, “Yes, my lord” but the words stuck in her throat, for suddenly her mother appeared before her, seen only by her mind’s eye but bright and vibrant as Thranduil. Her father was there too, red hair she had inherited swept carelessly over his shoulders – he never had cared for fancy styles. Yes, she understood the value of life. 

Thranduil said nothing more, and though he was standing several feet away he may as well have been leaning down over her. Eventually her throat came unstuck, and she sought to explain her actions. “I never was meant to fight,” she confessed. “I lost my home and family to the early raids. I understand what grief does and how lives can be torn apart. I understand that even knowing of this horror, I can know nothing of the tragedy that is a life of one captured and brought to Dol Guldur. With all the grief in my memory, I could never allow someone to fall victim to what I can imagine goes on there. I made a quick yet calculated decision, and though it resulted in the loss of a life I stand by what I did.”

She met Thranduil’s gaze to find it had softened somewhat. “That would be the appropriate decision to make,” he said, very quietly. “A horrific decision, but the right one. Now, Tauriel” – and his voice had changed, become businesslike once more – “I shall be in need of a new captain.” Tauriel nodded, a little thrown. “Would you be interested?” 

In the past, many in the army had insulted Tauriel’s intelligence, often for reasons like her low status, completely uneducated upbringing or the fact that she could not read, but she knew what Thranduil was referring to at once. It did not prevent her mouth opening in shock. “My lord, I couldn’t!” she cried. “I have never led before, never!”

Thranduil turned suddenly and ascended his throne. He was regal, wonderful in a way few outside the great poems were, and Tauriel suddenly understood why so many fought in his name instead of fighting for food, as did she. “I was standing alone when my father was killed at Dagorlad,” he said, and his voice rang through the hall. “Leadership is never something one desires when the person has potential to be great. Today you sacrificed your innocence and risked your freedom for the benefit of a fellow soldier in an impossible situation. It was a deed of greatness.”

Despite his words, Tauriel felt suddenly very small. “But my lord,” she said quietly. “I can’t even read.”

“Neither could I, before I was taught,” said Thranduil shortly. “Reading can be learned. Capacity can’t. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to make arrangements to put Arphen to rest. Go and clean up.”

Tauriel gave a short bow of her head and turned to leave, unsure whether she should be thanking her lucky stars or feeling fearful of what was to come in the next years. 

“Tauriel.”

She stopped, hand outstretched to the door, and turned back to face her king. “It is what he would have wanted. You made the right choice.”

A lump in her throat rose up until it was hard to breathe past it. A smile ghosted her lips and it was reflected in Thranduil’s face. She had finally been accepted, found the home and purpose she had lost all those years ago when her family had been lost. Nodding in thanks more than in acknowledgement, Tauriel opened the heavy door and left with a lighter heart.


End file.
